With passion such as this emanating from every last sweaty orifice of dear Alec’s being, how could I not be completely smitten at the sight of him? I cough. I tremble.

I lunge for the remote control to stay awake.

You’d think the buxom TV star, bridegroom-to-be (ha!), lefty politician wannabe and target of a super-hot, lovesick Canadian alleged stalker would have better things to do with his day than fixate on little old me.

But there was the “30 Rock’’ bloviator yesterday, taking to Twitter like a purging supermodel to a toilet. And there, I saw it —

My very first obsessive-compulsive, and captivatingly gorgeous, celebrity tweet!

“You won’t find a writer more casual with the truth in all of journalism than Andrea Peyser,’’ he practically panted in a Twitter post. He even spelled my name right.

Alec. You complete me.

How surprised I was to read yesterday that the smoking-hot Hollywood hunk took time out from his hectic schedule.

Alec has to produce a TV show, and he had to captivate, then capture, alleged stalker Genevieve Sabourin.

Plus, the busy man has to find time to pull the wool over the eyes of his budding doormat fiancée, Hilaria Thomas. Alec did all this, then pushed aside his full plate just to flirt — with me.

With me!

What a supreme (if incredibly creepy) compliment.

Like a bodice ripper from days of old, Alec confessed his innermost thoughts and dreams. He said I stand out above other reporters — in all of journalism! We’re talking about The New York Times, Maxim and Mad magazine, bucko.

Here is a guy I barely know, but would love to know infinitely better, provided that rubber gloves are involved. You don’t know where he’s been.

Already, Alec and I have moved from near-strangers to mortal enemies and into what he calls a “casual’’ relationship with the truth. My heart be still!

Now I know the truth. Alec Baldwin’s no insufferable stinker. No entitled, self-absorbed, arrogant putz, as everyone with working brain cells believed.

So when I called Alec a “blowhard known to be brutal to flight attendants, airplane bathroom stalls and terrified minor children,’’ I meant it in a good way.

His volcanic temper, which got him thrown off an American Airlines jet for refusing to turn off his cellphone, isn’t just aimed at lowly flight attendants and bathroom stalls, the door of which he pounded with full force in a fit of pique. You weren’t there. How do you know who hit first?

Also, in the case of an unscheduled landing in the middle of the Heartland, Alec’s refusal to shut his phone, like a sucker, might just help stranded passengers find the nearest Pizza Hut.

And who are we to say that his 11-year-old daughter, Ireland, whom he screamed at on the telephone, wasn’t at fault? Or, in the wise words of Alec, a “thoughtless little pig’’ whom he threatened to cross the country to “straighten out’’?

His unabashed arrogance, reserved solely for women and lesser creatures is hot. It got me at “Hello.’’

But now I, and I alone, know the truth. Alec Baldwin is no stinker. He’s merely misunderstood.

So when I wrote that his waistline was “expanding,’’ I confess I was being unjust and unfair.

Alec’s waistline is “expanding and contracting and expanding.’’ Cut the big guy some slack!

I’d expect another kind and loving tweet to be fired in my direction today by dear Alec.